Anthony Papagiannis
Thessaloniki, Greece

It was one of those episodes that often appear in works of fiction: the unusual circumstance, the odd coincidence, the thunderbolt out of a clear sky; an event that upsets the usual order of things, injects suspense, and drives the story according to the author’s fancy. Only this was not fiction but the real thing.

My visitor that afternoon was a colleague in a different specialty. His interests beyond medicine, from which he had recently retired, included travel, reading, music, and photography. Whenever we got together, we often shared updates and reflected on books, concerts, and our latest experiences related to them.

On that day, I had a photo album on the dining table. Another colleague, a retired microbiologist, had collected her personal pictures of wildflowers from different parts of the world and assembled them into a colorful publication, which she had brought to me as a gift. It was a work of art, a labor of love by a lady who had overcome numerous adversities in her life and cultivated her talents in writing and photography. The local medical journal had often hosted her prose and poetry.

My friend picked up the volume with the avidity of somebody who knows a good thing and appreciates it. He slowly turned the pages, commenting on the quality of the light, the sharpness of the images, and the variety of places and flowers. I suggested that he should write a review of the book for our journal when my cell phone rang. I excused myself and moved into the next room, anticipating a professional call.

“Doctor, I am E’s husband,” said the digital voice, mentioning the name of the colleague whose artwork we had just been admiring. “I am calling to let you know that she passed away suddenly this morning.”

I was lost for words. In my career I had received many death announcements over the telephone, but such a coincidence was quite unique. As far as I knew she did not have any life-threatening diseases, and her husband confirmed that she had suffered a cardiac arrest without any previous suspicion of heart disease.

I offered my condolences, and returned to the living room to share the shocking news with my visitor. His reaction was one of astounded awe: his jaw dropped, he held up the open book as if invoking the spirit of the deceased author. “This one?” he whispered. “The same,” I said. We remained silent, contemplating the time of death, the great uncertainty about the only certain event in life.